


Avon at the Window

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Past Underage, negative attitudes towards sex work (portrayed negatively)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4830305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Nova</p><p>Avon rescues Blake from Gauda Prime, but can he restore their relationship? Blake cannot get over the fact that Avon once worked in a cathouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avon at the Window

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).

Avon, by the window.  
A rectangle of reinforced perspex, opening onto a view of anonymous white buildings. The white walls of a hospital room folded around him, window guarded by a grid of bars. He gripped the cold iron, so tightly that his knuckles threatened to slice through skin.

"Regret is a part of life," he told the empty air. "But try not to make it too large a part."

Then he closed his eyes and forced himself to remember. First, a young runaway wandering dazed and desperate through the slums of Old Earth, approached by a kind, friendly man who offered him a place to stay. Assessing Mat Wyld's cathouse with a detachment that shocked its cynical owner, deciding that there were worse ways to survive than by sleeping with men like his father. Men who at least paid for the privilege and gave him extravagant compliments, even a kind of affection, rebuilding his shattered confidence and turning him into The Cat. The star attraction of Mat Wyld's establishment who maintained his detachment, avoided the lure of Shadow and other drugs and saved enough over the next five years to take himself off to the university and find his own freedom.

No, I do not regret the experience. I chose that method of survival because it was preferable to surviving the rigours of my family. It would be hypocritical to recast myself as a victim now.

A brisk nod. A sudden spasm in the hands that clutched the bars. Another memory. The London, Anna dead, himself a prisoner. His freedom in ruins and then, unexpectedly, Blake and the Liberator offering a new avenue of escape. Fighting against his attraction to Blake, able to resist while Blake was strong but abandoning the fight when Blake was almost destroyed by Gan's death. A few months of wild happiness, until a Terra Nostra henchman recognised The Cat and Servalan made sure Blake learned Avon's history in the most humiliating circumstances possible. After which Blake pushed on to Star One, only speaking to Avon when he could in no way avoid it, and then vanished into the farthest reaches of the galaxy.

Nothing to regret there, either. Blake's problem, not mine. Since he was unable to accept my past, better that I should find it out sooner, rather than later. I did not need an outraged puritan as a lover, having already proved conclusively that I do not need anybody at all.

A swift shudder of denial. Strong blunt fingers strained at the bars, their nails turning white under the pressure. He gritted his teeth and summoned up a third memory. A - go on, say it - a madman pursuing Blake across the galaxy, inventing apparently pragmatic reasons for touching down on every planet where the rebel was rumoured to have been sighted. Caught in a tightening spiral of betrayal. Starting with Tynus, who used him and died for it; continuing with Anna, who was alive after all and treacherous and - once he'd discovered that - dead again; and afterwards he'd almost killed Vila, who had not betrayed him. And then finally he found Blake and proceeded to shoot him, because by that time he saw betrayal everywhere.

Oh, Blake, you broke me in the end, just as I always knew you would. A lifetime of avoiding regret and now I can feel nothing else. Impossible not to regret what I have become.

What you have made me.

Still impossible, even after yesterday's discovery. Servalan appearing in his hospital room, resplendent in a white gown flecked with crystals, gazing down at him with wry distaste. "I'm disappointed in you, Avon," she had purred. "It's almost tempting to let this self-destructiveness run its course. But I need your expertise and the designs for the Liberator's technology, so I suppose I'll have to give you a reason for living," and she led him down long white corridors to a white door with a sliding panel at eye level, through which Avon looked and saw Blake. A rush of sensation, painful as blood returning to a numb limb, and then, just as Servalan predicted, he had decided to live a while longer.

His hands released the bars and lifted to smooth his hair. He smiled at his blurred reflection in the perspex, practising long-forgotten skills. In ten minutes time the orderly would return: Otto, the burly fool who for the last month had exercised the torn muscles of his gun-arm and injected him with vitamin supplements and washed his anorexic body with a fearful yearning delicacy.

When Otto came, The Cat would be waiting for him.

 

Avon, by the window.

A small sliding window in a white locked door. He peered through the gap and watched Blake toss on the narrow bed, rub the cast around his midriff, suck impatiently at his knuckles. A quick sigh, prompted by that familiar gesture, and then Avon unhitched Otto's hands from his waist and pointed silently to the lock.

As the door slid open, he faced Blake for the first time in two years. If you exclude our brief violent confrontation on Gauda Prime and that, at present, is precisely what I must do. Blake looked up and focussed directly on Otto's eager hands.

"Still playing the whore, Avon?" he rasped, mouth dragging down to match the scar that twisted his eye socket.

Avon nodded. "Astute as ever, Blake. Not very kind, perhaps, but then you were never as kind as you believed yourself to be. Do you wish to continue trading insults or would you prefer to escape?"

"Get me out of here, if that's what you've come for," Blake growled and turned his face away.

They loaded him into the chair that the orderly had commandeered. Otto wound a bandage round Blake's scalp and eyes, to conceal the identifying curls and scar, and they wheeled him down a succession of corridors, two anonymous grey-uniformed attendants going about their business with unobtrusive certainty. Avon tensed as they shunted the chair through the front doors but they reached the medivan without incident and hoisted the chair inside. The engine kicked and the van sped away.

Fifteen minutes of twists and turns before it stopped abruptly. "Where are we?" Blake demanded, speaking for the first time since they had left the hospital.

Avon touched his arm briefly. "No questions," he warned. "The driver might recognise your voice."

He kept his head averted while he positioned the chair on the hydraulic platform. Otto chatted easily to the driver, who appeared to have noticed nothing out of the ordinary. "We'll stay here to settle this fellow in," the orderly announced, waving the medivan off, but instead of entering the apartment complex, they steered the chair around the side of the building, where Otto's groundcar was waiting. He settled Blake on the back seat and turned to kiss Avon long and hard.

"I could get into trouble for this, if anyone works out how your mate escaped," he said, breathing fast. "But you're worth it."

Half an hour later Avon was standing in Otto's tiny flat, watching the orderly unwrap Blake's bandages. Hazel eyes blinked at the light and fixed Avon with a hostile stare.

"There you go," Otto said cheerily, patting Blake on the back. "You got a good friend in this one. He wouldn't come away with me unless I rescued you from the Federation's clutches as well. Say thank you," and when Blake continued to stare inimically, "All right, I'll thank him for you."

He reached Avon in a single stride, pinning him to the wall with a hungry kiss while his huge hand groped for Avon's genitals. Over the orderly's shoulder Avon watched Blake's mouth convulse in disgust, so he allowed the kiss to continue for a minute longer before he raised his hand, caressed Otto's bull neck and pinched the jugular nerve. As Otto slumped to the floor, Avon swept past the wheelchair to raid cupboards and find a dressing gown cord and a supple leather belt. He trussed the orderly securely and checked the benches, breath hissing out in relief as his hand closed on a thick wad of hundred credit notes.

"Good," he said crisply. "The fool managed to obey orders and access my account. Now to disguise you, Blake."

He picked up the grey hair dye, half-hidden behind the stack of notes, and returned to the wheelchair. Blake glanced up with a frown. "Fool?" he repeated. "Yes, I suppose he was a fool for trusting you."

Avon smiled brilliantly. "Then you must learn to be a fool as well," he said and began to colour Blake's hair.

While the dye sank in, he searched the flat and unearthed the costumes that Otto had bought in preparation. Two sets of Mahometic garments, a patriarch's robes for Blake and a woman's robes for Blake's companion: himself, of course, though the orderly had believed that Blake's sister would be joining them. The black veils concealed everything but a pair of dark long-lashed eyes. He washed Blake's hair in the small handbasin and dressed him with impersonal efficiency, then knelt by the orderly's body to check his pulse.

"Will you kill him?" Blake asked from the chair.

"I think not," Avon said, standing. "There has been enough killing already, wouldn't you agree?"

As their eyes met, the angry stare wavered. So Blake is not ready to acknowledge Gauda Prime: not yet. Avon dialled the number of a shuttlecab firm and rolled the wheelchair out to the lift.

Next step, the spaceport and freedom, of a sort.

 

Avon, by the window.

The back window of a furnished apartment in Space City, where a bundle of credits could buy anything within reason, no questions asked. He had rented the place within an hour of arriving in the city and spent another two hours acquiring a comprehensive computer system and basic supplies, so that he would not need to leave the apartment again. No point in drawing attention to themselves, even here on neutral territory. After all, the Terra Nostra controlled Space City and, unknown to most of its inhabitants, the Federation controlled the Terra Nostra.

A foreshortened figure scuttled to the bottom of the fire escape and began to climb. Avon padded across to the back door and waited for the knock. A small round balding man squeezed through the gap, peered up at Avon and clutched his hands eagerly.

"Cat!" he wheezed. "It's good to see you again. Still beautiful, naturally - but, my dear, those clothes! Why on earth are you dressed like that?"

As a matter of fact, I chose to retain the hospital uniform as the most effective way to define this new relationship between Blake and me. But that is none of your business, Lek Farrar.

"Your patient is in the front room," he said, withdrawing his hands. "Follow me."

"Arrogant as ever," the doctor said happily, as he trotted along behind Avon. "You were the most supercilious little bitch I ever dealt with in Wyld's cathouse - and the most fascinating too, of course. I'm dreadfully respectable these days, Cat, patching up the delinquent sons of the Terra Nostra for exorbitant fees. How did you manage to find -? No, don't tell me. I don't think I want to know."

He followed Avon into the long airy room where Blake lay propped against the pillows of a huge bed. A modem on a desk to one side and a stretcher bed by the far wall. Lek Farrar's round eyes flicked across to it and his eyebrows quirked in surprise.

"Separate beds? So he's not your lover?" he whispered and Avon echoed mockingly, "You don't want to know."

While the little doctor removed the cast and examined Blake, tutting enthusiastically over his wounds, Avon stood by the bed with his hands folded, impassive and patient as a well-trained valet. From time to time Lek shot a curious glance at him, clearly puzzled by the situation.

"Well, you'll live," he told Blake finally. "You shouldn't have been travelling, not in your condition, but I assume you didn't have a choice. I've left all the medication you'll need and Cat knows how to change your dressings. You're in good hands there, you know."

"Yes, I expect you've had experience with his hands," Blake snarled. "You're one of his ... old friends, aren't you? I got a whiff of the cathouse when you walked in."

The little doctor giggled delightedly and slapped his wrist. "No need to be insulting, dear, even though you are butch enough to get away with it. Come and see me out, Cat. I must dash, if I'm to be at the Terra Nostra banquet in time for the entrŽes."

Out in the corridor he stopped and tucked a plump hand into the crook of Avon's arm. "I'm afraid you've been a naughty boy, Cat," he murmured. "I know that face of his from somewhere, don't I?"

"Quite possibly," Avon agreed. "But don't bother to search your memory, Lek. It wouldn't be healthy."

Lek gave an exaggerated shudder. "Politics," he decided. "I couldn't be less interested. Well, Cat, I've done all I can for your friend. Don't you think I deserve a kiss in return?"

"Of course."

He leaned back, graceful and accepting. The little man closed in on him and kissed his mouth reverently, gasped and shuddered and sent a greedy tongue squirming between his lips. Plump hands fluttered across Avon's body, lingering on his cheek: his throat: his chest: circling round his groin without quite daring to touch. Slipping under the grey tunic to paw satin skin, while the jut of his erection rubbed frantic against Avon's hip, butted and jerked and stilled. He took a step backwards and looked up with a flash of bitterness.

"I always wanted you, Cat," he said thickly. "But you knew that, didn't you? It's the lure you used to get me here. I'm not sure what game you're playing this time but I can recognise danger when I smell it. Don't contact me again."

He marched to the door, back stiff and straight. Then, at the last minute, curiosity spun him around to ask one more question.

"Cat, I've never seen you like this before. Why him?"

"Because I owe him," Avon said in a level voice and the little doctor blinked, gulped and fled. Avon stood at the open door for a while, watching the night, then shrugged and turned away.

Back in the long room Blake was fidgeting restlessly. He hoisted himself higher on the pillows and growled, "I hope you paid him well for that."

"No need," Avon murmured. "As you said, he is an old friend."

"Yes, that's what I meant. I presume you paid him in your usual currency. Well, Avon? We can't keep secrets from each other, not at such close quarters. Did you screw him or didn't you?"

"As it happens, I did not. Although I can't see why it should concern you."

"Oh, I've got no personal interest in the matter," Blake said with a sudden twist of his mobile mouth. "That was all over long ago. But look at it from my point of view, Avon. I'm cooped up here at the mercy of an unscrupulous bastard with the morals of an alleycat, so you can hardly blame me for wanting to know what's going on." He laughed harshly and added, "Perhaps I should call you Cat, like he does - but the word leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth."

Behind Avon's back, his hands had clenched into fists. He uncurled the fingers carefully and leaned over to straighten the bedcovers. "Easy, Blake," he said, soft-voiced. "You need to rest now. Or would you prefer to eat something before you sleep?"

"No, you and your little friend have turned my stomach," Blake spat. "Leave me alone, Avon. I'm sick of the sight of you."

Avon nodded and walked across to the computer, flicking the switch. Winced at the heavy thud from the mattress as Blake ostentatiously turned his back. Sat down and checked the menu on the screen, forcing himself to forget his surroundings and concentrate on planning the future.

I owe him.

 

Avon, by the window.

The side window behind the desk, looking down an avenue of Space City's bizarre artificial trees. He hit a key on the computer and froze the display. His first clue to Avalon's current headquarters, after three weeks of intensive hacking. Not that the delay really mattered, since Blake was still in too much pain to be moved. He would need to play the nurse for a while longer.

At that thought he rose and went to the bed, gazing down with a shiver of concern. Blake's sleepshirt was soaked with sweat again. His eyes were glazed, his breath hot and dry and heat radiated in waves off his skin. When Avon bent to unfasten the sleepshirt, he found the dressing across Blake's stomach sticky with yellow pus and the skin around it red and swollen.

Infection. Lek said this was a possibility, nothing to be alarmed about. But then, he also said that his pills would clear up any infection within two days, which they have not.

He slid an arm under Blake's shoulder, easing the shirt off. Blake opened his good eye and squinted up. "You enjoy this, don't you, slut?" he slurred. "A chance to get your hands on me. Must be getting desperate, three weeks "thout a fuck. Sh'd ditch me an" go catting in Space City."

"I could hardly leave you in this condition," Avon said equably. "Lie still while I change the dressing."

As he peeled away the gauze pad, his heart lurched at the sight of raw angry flesh. Blake twitched and whimpered while he cleaned the wound, for once unable to hide his distress. Avon bit his lip and pressed another dressing into place with hands that would have shaken if he had not controlled them fiercely. He pulled up a chair and settled beside the bed to watch for any sign of change.

By midnight Blake was lost in a fever dream. Muttering inarticulately, sinking into a stuporous doze, sitting up abruptly with a hoarse shout of panic. After Avon had wrestled him back onto the pillows for the fourth time, he went to stand by the windows, staring blindly at the reflected light of the Space City sky. Then he smoothed his hair, rubbed colour into his cheeks and punched a code into the visphone.

Seconds later Lek Farrar's pudgy face appeared on the screen, sleepy and furious. "No," he said without preamble. "You're on your own, Cat."

"But I need you," Avon said, voice as low and seductive as he could make it. He held his breath for a moment, then let it out in a long sigh as the doctor broke the connection.

An hour of pacing between bed and back door, followed by a second of agonising relief when he heard a soft urgent knock. Lek pushed past him and bustled down the corridor, bending over Blake with an irritable grunt.

"Yes, all right, this is worse than I expected," he grumbled. "I'll have to lance the wound and give you some stronger drugs. Oh, for God's sake, Cat, don't look at me like that. He's a survivor, in case you hadn't noticed. He'll pull through."

They worked on Blake for the next hour, the little doctor muttering to himself and issuing orders, Avon watching every move with intent concentration. By the time Lek was finished, the drugs had taken hold and Blake's eyes were beginning to focus. He frowned at the doctor, said "You again" and dropped straight into a tranquil sleep.

"That's fixed him," Lek said with satisfaction. "He'll wake up good as new. And now, Cat, it's time for you to keep your word and show me just how much you need me."

The room reeled. Avon swayed on his feet and gripped the bedframe. "Not here," he said involuntarily and the little doctor chuckled.

"Wherever you like, dear. Just as long as it's very, very convincing."

The walk down the corridor provided a transition time, long enough to turn him into The Cat, with all of a cat's survival mechanisms. Avon reached out to take Lek's hand, its palm already damp with anticipation, and drew him into the second bedroom, where he began to strip off his tunic in a slow and practised display. After that, it was easy. The old patterns reasserted themselves, just as they had done with Otto, and the little doctor was as gratifyingly responsive as the orderly had been. He gasped at the first contact of skin on skin, mewed with excitement as Avon licked delicately at stiff pink nipples and by the time Avon took his cock into his mouth, he was wriggling across the sheets in an agony of delight. 

Except that, somewhere around then, everything started to go badly wrong. Just as he was about to exert a final irresistible pressure and suck Lek dry, a hand clamped round his wrist. A chaos of movement: the doctor shoving him back onto the bed, scrambling over him, snatching a tube of gel from his bag. He slicked his cock frantically and shunted his shoulders under Avon's thighs. Reared up, positioned himself and thrust, hard and deep and immediate, sending Avon spiralling helplessly into a starburst of pain.

No. Can't lose control. There is payment due and I have to pay.

He caught the pain and steadied it. Distanced himself from it (a technique perfected decades before) and became The Cat again. Relaxing his muscles to permit the invasion, arching his back to mimic pleasure and find a safer angle, chanting the expected litany: "Oh yes, that's good. So big. Don't stop. Please, I need it."

And then, halfway through the litany, the little doctor laughed.

"Don't try those tricks on me, Cat," he whispered. "I worked in Wyld's cathouse, remember. I've seen it all. I want more than that ."

He flicked a manicured nail at Avon's nipple and grinned ferociously at the sharp hiss of breath. His hands roved, fast and faster, finding nerves and nipping at them with professional expertise. Avon clenched his jaw and endured. For Blake. For Blake. Realised what Lek was expecting from him but found himself unwilling to show how much it hurt. Lay stoic and silent under the torturer hands, until a jag of white lightning tore down his side and wrenched a groan from his heaving lungs. Heard Lek breathe, "Yes, Cat, that's it." Felt him pump in an uneven, jolting rhythm that ripped fresh pain from his abused sphincter. Cried out a second time, then passed through the pain and went on into a glaring white emptiness, where he could see nothing but the raw angry wound in Blake's side.

Oozing and gaping wider and swallowing him up.

Afterwards the doctor stood over the bed, straightening his coat with shaky hands, looking down at the rumpled sheets with a sullen pout. "It's never as good as you expect, is it?" he said wryly. "Still, I'll remember this. At least I hurt you once, as much as you used to hurt me. Goodbye, Cat. We won't meet again."

A door closed, somewhere in the distance. Avon pushed himself off the bed and stumbled to the shower. He soaped and rinsed: soaped and rinsed: soaped and rinsed: still scrubbing mechanically long after the last drop of Lek's semen had swirled off into the sewers of Space City. Water streamed over him, massaging his bruises and washing away the pain. He dried himself and dressed and went back to Blake.

Who opened clear, feverless eyes, smiled like a waking child and said, "He had you this time, didn't he? Don't bother to lie. I can smell him on you. Come here."

"Yes, Blake," he said, moving obediently to the bed. "What do you want?"

Blake knotted a hand in his sleeve and dragged him down, until their faces were only a breath apart. "You," he said savagely. "If you'll do it for him, you can do it for me. Why should I be the only one who's missing out ... Cat?"

Avon sighed. Oh, marvellous. That's pain for you. People can scent it from five thousand spacials and they all want their share.

Blake, however, is entitled to his share of my pain.

As he sighed again, the big hand released his sleeve and transferred to his bicep. Iron fingers dug into the muscle, wrenching hard, but just as Avon was about to lose balance, Blake groaned and clutched at his wound and fell back onto the bed.

"It's all right," Avon said softly. "There is no need to force me. You only have to ask."

He straightened up and unfastened his tunic, for the second time in an hour. Closed his eyes and sent the memory of Lek Farrar rocketing away into the night, then looked down at Blake again. As the grey uniform crumpled to the floor, he changed: not the unobtrusive manservant any longer, not The Cat this time but not the Avon of the Liberator either. Shadows clung to his pale skin and emphasised the hollows of his cheeks. He prowled towards Blake, movements studied and theatrical, eyes brilliant as faceted stones.

Blake watched, mesmerised, as Avon sank onto the bed and knelt over his cock with a flamboyant subservience that took his breath away. "That's right," he urged hoarsely. "You know what to do. Give me what I need."

He lounged on the pillows like a sultan, eyes fixed on the white body arced above him. Dusk swirled through the room. Space City blazed across the horizon. Avon's tongue rasped catlike up the shaft of Blake's cock, inflaming the gorged veins and sucking him deeper. After a while Blake's hand crept towards his mouth and his knuckles pressed hard against his teeth.

"No," he burst out. "Not good enough, Avon. I want you here, where I can see you."

Avon nodded and lifted his head, letting his hand take over from his mouth. Without breaking contact, he went slithering up the length of Blake's body until their legs twined together and heart beat against heart. One hand continuing to coax and tease Blake's cock, the other drawing patterns down the smooth skin of his chest. Blake growled deep in his throat. Buried his fingers in Avon's hair and twisted sharply, jerking his head back.

Their eyes locked. Blake's face was flushed scarlet, contorted with effort, but the cock wrapped in Avon's fist shrank further at every touch.

"It's no use," he said with sudden violence. "I thought I could do this but I can't. Get out of here, Avon. Get out ."

Avon relaxed his grip and slid off the bed. He waited for half a second and then walked swiftly to the door. Outside, he sank straight to the floor, his back wedged into the corner, his head wedged between his knees. Stayed there, unmoving, until the shivers that wracked his naked body intensified and turned to numbness.

When he returned, Blake was sprawled unconscious across the mattress, cock limp against his thigh. Avon smoothed down his sleepshirt, tucked the covers around him and - dangerous indulgence - leaned over to kiss Blake's cheek. A tang of salty moisture where his lips touched. He wiped the tear away gently, pulled on his clothes and went to sit at the computer. Half a dozen new and plausible ways of contacting Avalon crowded through his brain and sent his fingers darting across the keyboard.

I owe Blake. Still. 

 

Avon, by the window.

The window seat at the front of the apartment, overlooking the panorama of Space City. A book plaque in his hand, his eyes roaming across sunlit domes, glittering towers and the Mšbius loops of highways. Hard to believe that there was a whole world waiting out there. Over the past month it had somehow become irrelevant.

"Avon?" Blake's voice, sounding awkward and tentative. "May I have some more water, please?"

Avon rose, instantly deferential, and filled a glass from the jug on the desk. When he carried it over, the other man's eyes caught at him and held him there. "Would you read to me again?" he asked humbly. "If you don't mind."

"Feeling better?" Avon noted. "Yes, Blake. Of course."

He broke the gaze and went to fetch the book plaque. Over the past week Blake's health had improved steadily, which was fortunate, since Avon was not sure where he would have turned in the event of another relapse. An improved Blake, however, meant that he was faced with an unexpected addition to his duties: the need to provide entertainment. There were two obvious possibilities but since conversation, especially since their abortive sexual encounter, seemed risky, Avon had opted for reading aloud.

Their first book had been a piece of diverting escapism by a pre-expansionist Old Earth writer, full of dwarves and elves and improbably heroic clashes between good and evil. But the novel that Avon had downloaded that morning, by a contemporary author whom he admired, turned out rather disconcertingly to be a vitriolic social parable centred around a cathouse. Midway through the first chapter, he paused after a particularly outrageous piece of description to say, "Blake, I can select another text, if this is not to your taste."

"No need," Blake said mildly. "Unless you dislike it."

For all Blake's recent conciliatoriness, that felt like a challenge. Avon shrugged and continued. A break to change the dressing on Blake's rapidly healing wound and another break to prepare the evening meal but in between he read on steadily until his voice, unused to the exercise, began to fail.

"It'd be easier if you sat a little closer," Blake suggested. "Here," and he thumped the stack of pillows beside him.

Avon hesitated imperceptibly and then settled himself on the bed. Shadows clogged up the corners of the room and the lights of Space City filled the windows as the story unfolded, drawing wicked parallels between cathouse and Federation.

"Very subversive," he commented dryly, when he paused to adjust the lamp. "And accurate too, as far as I can tell."

"Well, you'd know," Blake said with a flicker of his old cruelty and Avon smiled down at him.

"Not really. This writer is describing a standard cathouse. Mat Wyld's establishment catered for specialist tastes. I was twelve when I began to work there and seventeen when I ... ah, retired."

Stricken hazel eyes lifted towards him. "That young?" Blake breathed. "Christ, Avon, why didn't you tell me?"

"Would it have made a difference?" he asked with detached interest and Blake said involuntarily, "Are you mad? Obviously I'd have felt differently about - no, I'm sorry. It's none of my business. Keep reading."

Avon thumbed a key and brought up the next paragraph. Some time later he glanced warily sideways and saw Blake sliding down the pillows, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. He smiled to himself and switched off the display. Then, as he leaned over to remove one of the pillows, a big hand captured his wrist and a drowsy voice mumbled, "Don't go."

The air rushed out of his lungs. "All right," he said, breathless, and waited. Blake sighed with satisfaction and snuggled deeper under the covers, maintaining his hold on Avon's hand. Avon watched him for a while and then tested the grip, which immediately tightened. He lifted an ironic eyebrow - even asleep, Blake still managed to control the situation - and settled back, studying the ripple of light on the ceiling. Intending to escape as soon as Blake released him but instead being lulled to sleep by the gentle regular rhythm of Blake's breath.

Minutes or hours later he woke from a nightmare of Gauda Prime, to find himself once again fending off a large solid body. Not a dying man this time, however, but an indisputably live one: Blake, nuzzling into his shoulder and flinging a sleep-heavy arm across his chest. Avon lay there, pinioned and rigid, while his heart slowed from a wild tattoo to an even drumbeat. Gradually his muscles relaxed. He lifted a tentative hand to stroke tangled curls and Blake murmured and shifted closer.

I used to push him away at this point, when we slept together on Liberator. But not now ...

Insomniac by nature, Avon was sure sleep would elude him after that. When his eyes opened to pale morning light, he frowned at the windows in surprise. Frowned again at the sight of Blake's hand splayed possessively across his. He lifted Blake's arm carefully and edged away, pulling on a jacket and heading for the computer.

He had spent an hour experimenting with passwords for a dissident website before the mattress twanged behind him. Blake sat up, rubbing his eyes and running his hands through his curls.

"Good morning, Avon," he announced cheerfully. "A very good morning, as a matter of fact. For some reason I slept much better than usual."

Ah. So he does not remember.

"Clearly, literature is an effective soporific," he murmured, mostly relieved, only a little disappointed. "I shall have to try the classics on you next."

That marked the beginning of a new routine. Every morning Avon rose early and worked at the computer until Blake woke, after which he would make breakfast, dress Blake's wound and return to his research for a few more hours. Afternoons and evenings would be spent reading, sometimes interspersed with cautious, impersonal discussion of the current book, and then at night Blake would sleep peacefully on Avon's shoulder. And next morning Avon would rise early and leave the bed, protecting Blake from any need to acknowledge intimacy: or, possibly, protecting himself.

Until the night when he lay watching the shadow-play on the walls and felt Blake turn in his arms and press against him. Avon froze. A hand explored up his side, closed on his shoulder and gave a hesitant hopeful tug. He resisted for a moment, mouth suddenly dry, a pulse beating hard in his throat. Then the hand tugged again and with an inaudible groan he yielded.

As Avon rolled towards him, Blake sighed and settled back on the pillows, lifting his mouth for a kiss like a confident child. The light from the windows lingered on a sleep-smooth face and sleep-sealed eyes. Avon's breath caught in his chest, midway between a laugh and a sob.

Oh, perfect. So this is not really happening.

When he kissed the soft full mouth, Blake murmured drowsy approval and wrapped strong arms around him. Caught and held, Avon had no choices left. He collapsed onto Blake's chest - twisting to avoid the scar across his midriff; Blake making a small grumbling sound and pulling him close - and they rocked together, cocks rubbing with sensuous friction. A sleepy tumble of bodies: no urgency, no conscious technique, no history: just gripping and stroking and kneading and straining and clutching. Coming in slow motion, breaths mingled, steady heave of hip against hip and a long insistent pulse of semen warm and slick between them.

Avon's eyes were squeezed shut, pretending sleep, but at the last minute he looked down and thought he saw a flash of hazel under Blake's heavy lids. A momentary tightness behind his ribs and then Blake shifted languid and boneless beneath him and the panic passed. No need for alarm. Blake was, without question, asleep. This was not really happening. He fitted his head into the hollow of Blake's shoulder, dropped a protective arm across Blake's chest and allowed himself to drift into a series of healing, hope-charged dreams, smiling in his sleep. 

He woke with a jolt that propelled him straight from the bed to the shower, where he soaped and rinsed as obsessively as on the night of Lek Farrar's second visit: although for a different reason. When he glanced at his reflection in the mirror on the bathroom cabinet, his mouth was still curving towards a smile and his eyes were hazed with hope. Avon took a deep breath and schooled his face into impassivity.

This changes nothing.

Nothing.

He was at the computer, testing a sequence of decryption programs on a promisingly coded site, when he heard the small familiar sounds of Blake waking. A yawn, a stretch and then a voice saying, awed and wondering, "Avon, did we -?"

Avon tensed and stared at the screen, trying to focus. The display in front of him fragmented and then reformed. He swallowed hard and whirled around.

"Blake!" he said, unable to hold back a grin of triumph. "I've done it! I have found Avalon for you at last."

It was nice to know that his old skills were still useful for something. Although two days later, when Avalon and her entourage arrived, Avon reverted to his grey-uniformed role, gliding around the room to dispense drinks or food, silent and compliant as a Delta servant. Avalon and the other rebels had been bringing Blake up to date on the progress of the revolution for a full half hour before a stately young black woman blinked, opened her eyes wide and exclaimed, "Avon! I can't believe I didn't recognise you."

A fleeting smile slipped past his restraint. "Dayna," he returned. "So you survived."

"Yes, Avalon recaptured the base at Gauda Prime and freed Vila, Soolin, Tarrant and me. We'd only been stunned, not injured, so none of us had been taken off-planet, unlike you and Blake. What happened next, Avon? How -?"

"Oh, I survived also," he murmured. "An unfortunate talent of mine. Excuse me, Dayna. I need to fetch more refreshments."

He blended into the background again. Listening attentively while Avalon and Blake made plans, watching from a distance as the rebels eddied out into the corridor and Avalon turned back impulsively to give Blake a final hug. Blake laughed and swung the tiny woman off her feet, said, "I'll see you tomorrow then" and ushered her down to the back exit.

"The others are leaving today but Avalon has some business in Space City," he explained to Avon on his return. "Book us two tickets on a spaceship to Epheron, will you? The next flight out - I can't wait to get away from this place." He hesitated and then added in a rush, "Avon, I've never thanked you for saving me."

"Well, don't start now," Avon said sharply. "Not unless you wish to rattle the entire chain of obligations between us."

Blake bit down on a fingertip. "All right," he agreed. "I suppose it's not really the most appropriate of moments. This has been an amazing afternoon, Avon. Avalon's achieved so much in such a short time. I've always wanted to work more closely with her, because we think along the same lines. Those plans to destroy the Pylene 50 manufacturers - pure genius. I couldn't have dreamed up anything better myself." 

It was the old Blake, the Blake of the Liberator, filled with messianic fervour for his next crusade. Avon gazed at him for a moment, half glad and half regretful, before turning away to log in the necessary commands. He stared at the words on the screen, confirming a booking for two travellers, until the glowing letters wavered and blurred. Then he muttered an excuse and hurried out of the room.

I will miss you, Blake. But not for very long. 

 

Avon, by the window.

The bathroom window, so small and high that he could only see a square black patch of night sky. In twelve hours time a spaceship would streak across that sky, carrying Blake off to Avalon's headquarters. He could fight for his cause and be happy. And Avon would finally be free.

Free of him, at any rate.

He stared at his face in the mirror: skin drained and pale, eyes haunted. Then he opened the cabinet and took out his hoarded pills, needing to check that they were still there, needing to open the lid and stir the contents with one finger to make sure there would be enough. He hooked out one of the pills.

Raised his hand jerkily.

Touched the capsule to his lips.

Held it there.

Some time later he heard a muffled sound behind him. When he spun round, Blake was clinging to the door frame, eyes shocked wide. He lunged forward and knocked the jar from Avon's hand.

"No," he whispered. "No! "

The pills rattled out and fanned across the floor. Blake stood and stared down at them, face white as paper. When he lifted his head, Avon was waiting submissively beside him. His eyes were expressionless but there were two slashes of red across his cheekbones. 

Blake gripped his arm and shook hard. "All right, we're even," he said roughly. "You almost killed me and I almost killed you. Now can we forget about that and get on with our lives?"

Avon's hand slid up to touch the patch of heat on his right cheek: a consciously affected gesture that seemed to say, "Blushing? How embarrassing." He shrugged and murmured, "A nice idea. But I have made no plans for getting on with my life."

"You don't need to," Blake growled. "You're coming with me. Who the hell did you think that second ticket was for?"

"For Avalon, naturally. She's beautiful and brave, a woman of principle and a committed revolutionary. Everything you want, Blake. Everything that I am not."

"She also happens to love your friend Dayna, Kerr. Just as I happen to love you."

The blood drained slowly from Avon's face, leaving him as white as Blake. He said "No" in a voiceless whisper and crumpled. Blake lurched forward and caught him just before he hit the floor. Pills crunched and split under his feet, spilling a trail of powder across the tiles.

"Kerr!" he shouted. "Kerr, you stubborn bastard. Don't tell me I'm too late."

He slapped Avon twice, winced and watched his eyelids flicker. "What a fiasco," said the voiceless whisper. "I seem doomed to make myself ridiculous this afternoon. First blushing and then fainting, like a frightened virgin. Whatever will you think of me, Blake?"

"As if that matters," Blake snarled. "I just need to know whether you've taken any of those pills."

Agate eyes opened and stared up at him. "I am not a complete fool," Avon said. "I was saving them until you had left. Let go of me, will you? I can stand on my own."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. It's what you've always done, for as long as I've known you."

He held Avon for a few seconds longer, cheek to cheek, and then released him. Swung away and gazed out of the window, big hands gripping the sill so hard that his knuckles blazed white. Behind him, Avon touched his face again and looked down at the damp smear on his fingers.

"Blake?" he said, his voice breaking halfway through the word. "Blake, are you crying?"

"I believe I am," Blake said without turning. "Does that even the score? After all, it makes me equally ridiculous. Although I'm not sure whether it's more ridiculous to love a man who's horrified by the idea or to cry when I learn the truth."

"The truth?" Avon asked, unexpectedly amused. "Have we arrived at that yet?"

"Haven't we?" Blake whirled back, arms flung wide, tears pooling in the jagged line of his scar. "You've done your duty now, Avon. There's no need to feel guilty any longer. Take your Big Wheel winnings and buy yourself a planet somewhere. Just stay alive, please. That's the last thing I'll ask of you."

Avon smiled. "Oh, I think you're entitled to ask for more than that. If you want it."

"What I want -" he began, pressing a hand to his side. "What I want," forcing himself to continue, "is impossible, because I've systematically destroyed it over the last two months. You can never love me now, Kerr, not after what I've done to you."

"Strange," Avon mused. "That was precisely how I felt. Perhaps we are both wrong."

He took a step forward and ran his hand slowly and deliberately across Blake's scar, wiping the tears away. Blake stood there for a moment, arms extended stiffly, then gasped and pulled Avon towards him. "I don't deserve this," he muttered, his breath stirring strands of fine brown hair. "But if I can have it ... Oh God, Kerr, I want you so much ... Could you really ...?"

"I am not a mind-reader," Avon said irritably. "It would help if you could finish your sentences." Blake's chest heaved against him and he reached up to smooth away more tears, adding, "All right, I know. You want me to say it. Yes, Blake, I love you. I'm afraid I always have."

"Is that so bad?" Blake asked, hugging him close.

He laughed. "It certainly doesn't appear to have done either of us much good so far. Blake, my dear, do we have to play this entire scene in a bathroom? Could you bear to return to the front room, where we can converse in a civilised fashion?"

They made their way down the corridor, Blake supporting himself on Avon's shoulder, although back at the bed he turned with new energy and reached out again. Avon's arm swung up, knocking his hand away and setting a barrier between them.

"No, Blake," he said steadily. "Don't you see? It is time for you to ask about Gauda Prime."

Honey-coloured eyes studied him thoughtfully. "And what will you tell me?" Blake mused. "That you were half-mad from stress and exhaustion? That you never intended to become a leader, until I foisted it on you by leaving? That you loved me enough, despite everything I'd done, to keep on searching for the next two years? That you found it easy to believe I'd betray you, because I'd betrayed you already when I rejected The Cat?"

Time passed in the silent room. "Something of the sort," Avon admitted finally, his face blank with surprise. "So you are suggesting that we do not need to discuss our last encounter?"

"It seems a trifle masochistic. Let me propose a bargain. I won't apologise for my more conventional views on sexual morality, if you don't explain why you shot me. No regrets, Kerr. Life's too short for that."

No regrets? None at all? I suspect Blake's proposition may prove a little too simplistic. 

But as usual he has the overview right.

"Why not?" Avon decided. "I am bored with pain. Would you please fuck me, Blake - or does that go against your views on sexual morality?"

"Not at all," he said promptly. "I told you I was conventional. I can't think of anything more appropriate than making love to a man I love."

 

Avon, by the window.

The long light-filled window of the apartment, reflected in Blake's eyes. "The eyes are the windows of the soul," someone once said and Avon found himself wanting to believe it. Found himself scanning the bright reflection as if he was indeed hoping for a glimpse of Blake's soul.

"Can you?" he gasped, as big hands slid down the curve of his back and gripped his buttocks. "Can you really?" he pleaded, writhing across Blake's chest like a hooked fish. "Can you really trust me? Can you really love me? Answer me, Blake!" he demanded and pulled away, propped on his elbows, sinking both hands into tangled curls. 

"There's no point in repeating myself," Blake grumbled. "You wouldn't believe me, anyway: you never have. You think too much, Kerr. Try judging by what I do, instead. Remember, you always said I should stick to action."

He clenched his muscles and swung his thighs over Avon's shoulders. Avon arched back in surprise. His eyes dilated at the sight of Blake spread wide before him. The white column of his throat. The dark pillar of his cock, lifting from the shaggy hair at his groin. The tan velvet inside his bared arse, shading down to an expectant pucker of rosy flesh.

Open and waiting. For me.

As he stared into Blake's eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, Avon became aware of shadow-figures grouped around the bed: Tynus and Anna, Lek Farrar, Mat Wyld and, more shadowy still, his father. But the minute he named them, they turned and backed away, vanishing with the last of his regrets. He laughed abruptly. Lunged forward to snatch a tube of cream from the bedside table. Swooped down in passing and kissed Blake's mouth, which tasted like honeyed milk and hope. And, while his cock sank centimetre by centimetre into the safest and most dangerous refuge he had ever found, Kerr Avon conceded for the first time in almost forty years that it might, under certain specific circumstances, be possible to consider oneself happy. 

Afterwards they lay grappled together in the churned, sweaty sheets. "Well, Kerr?" Blake said, stretching lazily. "Do you think we have a chance? Can anyone ever redeem the past?"

"Another quixotic enterprise?" Avon asked. "Haven't you had enough of those already?" 

He turned his head and gazed through the long window at clouds that formed and reformed like dreams. Then he smiled at Blake and added, "Surely it would be more sensible of us to try and redeem the future."


End file.
